


Lost to the Flame

by commander_of_grey



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: All Origins Survive AU, Bunch of idiots (and Wynne) trying to save the world, But not all the Origins are Wardens, I tried to write this like the DA novels, Mostly story-compliant, Multi, Multiple Wardens AU, Tried being the key word, and kind of succeeding, long chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2019-09-02 18:51:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16792699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/commander_of_grey/pseuds/commander_of_grey
Summary: She signed on because she wanted freedom. He did so because he wanted vengeance. With the army at Ostagar lying cold and dead in the freshly fallen snow, two unlikely (and unwilling) heroes must unite a kingdom that hates them to bring an end to the Fifth Blight before it consumes everything. All they have at their disposal is a bunch of ragtag group of misfits they keep finding in the most unlikely of places. Oh, and Wynne.If the Darkspawn or Loghain's army don't kill them, the constant bickering will.





	1. The One With the Girl in the Tower

The first time Aedan Cousland steps foot on the tiny splash of rock amidst the dark waters of Lake Calenhad, it is during the day, on a cold Wintermarch afternoon. Snow clings like a blanket to the rocks, causing the young boy to huddle closer to his elder brother in search of warmth. Armor-clad men lower a withered old sage onto a boat filled with white lilies, and as it is led away by the current, a flaming arrow launched from shore causes it to catch fire. The flames rise into the air and dance in the water’s reflection for a long time, until the flame and the boat are both reduced to drowned embers. Aedan does not understand why so many around him weep, nor why the men in heavy armor bar his way when he attempts to take a peek inside the Tower – the only building on the island.

The second time is different. It is Firstfall, and the rock is barren and slippery underfoot during the climb from the tiny pier to the Tower. With the sun long set, the narrow path is illuminated only by floating orbs suspended in small cubes of glass – magical lanterns. But few months ago, Aedan would have found them intriguing. Now, the flicker of flame within only serves as a painful reminder of a home left in ashes, a castle and family abandoned to the blaze. He steers clear of the light, as far as the narrow path up the cliffside allows. The Tower looms over them like a beacon, dark even against the obsidian night sky. Once, the sight might have been mystifying. Now, Aedan looks up and thinks; _What a lonely place to live_.

Duncan waits at the end of the trail. His chin is turned up, eyes locked on the rising structure. Is that wistfulness in the older man’s gaze? Aedan cannot say. For the entirety of their journey to Lake Calenhad, they’ve barely exchanged two words. Pup, Aedan’s ironically-named mabari hound, sits at Duncan’s feet and welcomes its master with a happy bark. Duncan turns. Aedan nods. They continue.

A pair of armor-clad warriors welcome them at the doors. The armor is unmistakable – the upside-down sword surrounded by flames announces them as members of the Templar Order. One of them casts a weary glace towards Pup but says nothing even as the hound narrows its eyes and bares its teeth in silent warning. When the Templar turns his head, Aedan subtly scratches behind the mabari’s ear. _Good boy_.

The doors to the Tower are large, solid wood with metal frame. They creak with disuse as a Templar pushes them open. Two more men await in the vast hall behind the doors. The first is stern, with a head of neatly combed silver hair and frown lines etched into his stone-like face. He wears full armor, but no helm, and the markings on his pauldrons identify him as their superior. _Knight-Commander_ , Aedan recalls what Mother Mallol had told him about the Order as a boy. The man next to him wears no armor, but rather a robe in earthly colors, with an elegantly crafted staff at his back. His full beard and bushy eyebrows do little to hide the intricate webbing of wrinkles and the raccoon eyes that give away his age and weariness. Yet he stands with his back straight beside the Knight-Commander, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Ah, Duncan,” the old man addresses the Warden. His voice is low and gravelly – yet another testament to his age – but light and warm all the same. “I was beginning to think you wouldn’t make it.”

“I apologize for the late arrival, First Enchanter.” Duncan bows with his arms folded over his chest. A sign of respect. It’s the first time that Aedan witnesses Duncan do so.

_First Enchanter_. The young man thinks. _That’s a mage term. Explains the staff._

Aedan has never seen a mage before, not knowingly. He’s heard stories, sure. _Magic is meant to serve man, and never to rule over him_. The image of a mage presented by the Chantry for those without the gift is terrible indeed, but as Aedan gazes at the old man before him, he sees no demon. No abomination. Just an old man, no different from old man Aldous or Aedan’s own grandfather.

“Hmph. You better have good reason for delaying until this hour. Grey Warden or not, I will not have anyone disrupt the peace here.” The Knight-Commander nods curtly as a means of greeting. His eyes are fixed on Duncan, but somehow Aedan feels like his every move is being scrutinized.

Irving chuckles softly. If the knight’s irritation bothers him, he does not show it. “Now, Gregoair. You forget that we stand amidst a lake. Getting here is hardly an easy feat.”

“Getting out seems to be getting all too easy these days.”

Irving sighs and turns to the Warden and recruit. “Forgive him, Duncan. There has been a… complication, since last I wrote to you.”

“A blood mage escaping without a means to track him is not a mere ‘complication’, Irving!”

“Perhaps we can take this discussion somewhere more private?” Duncan interjects just as it looks like the Knight-Commander is about to launch into another tirade. The tension in the room is palpable and thick enough for one of Aedan’s blades to cut through it.

“Yes… Shall we?” Irving nods at Duncan, but his words are clearly directed at Gregoair. “Before we wake the entire Tower.” The Templar nods stiffly, and move they do.

Down hallways and up the stairs they go, past vast libraries where book-filled shelves seem to fill every void and cranny, and classrooms with large oak tables. Aedan can almost imagine a dozen robe-clad children scribbling away as a stern-faced mage paces behind them, chanting in a dull monotone something about the history of Thedas and occasionally whacking a ruler on the surface of the desk next to the head of a particularly tired student that decided to fall asleep. The image changes and before long, it is Aedan and his elder brother, kids again, being lectured by old man Aldous. A happy memory. Aedan shakes his head viciously and forces his eyes squarely on the stone beneath his feet. If his eyes water ever-so-slightly, no one is the wiser.

The second floor is little different from the first, albeit with locked chambers replacing classrooms and libraries. Behind closed doors, Aedan can barely catch wisps of whispers and giggles, which cease abruptly as soon as a Templar’s greave taps against the stone outside. Feet shuffle in dark corners where torchlight does not reach, and even as he stubbornly stares at the floor, Aedan notices hints of robed figures shuffling around corners, out of sight. A fire crackles softly somewhere nearby. The whole place smells of burning wood, old books and dust.

The First Enchanter’s office sits at the far end of the third floor, where more doors are ajar even at this late hour. Within are bedroom chambers, which comes as little surprise. The robe figures look up as the group moves down the hall. Some are surprised; others are weary. Some ignore them completely, content to bury their noses in their books and their own business. Templars stand guard outside doors here, too, undistinguishable from statues until they move to salute the Knight-Commander in his passing.

Aedan jumps every time. He hates it here. The tower is cold and foreign and yet so familiar. Every little detail tugs at his chest and the void left inside it. The demons rise again, their tiny hands clawing at his lungs until it’s hard to think. He sees red, red, _red_ , like the blood spraying on his face as Iona is cut down at the door. Every breath is sharp like a dagger, shredding him from the inside. The smell of the fireplace warps until it smells of corpses. He can’t. He _can’t_ \--

A hand on his shoulder brings him back. It’s warm and steady, like everything else about the man attached to it. Duncan says nothing as Aedan heaves breath after breath like a man deprived of air. Pup rubs his head against its owner’s leg, and Aedan finds the short fur with a shaking hand, holds on to it like the hound is the only solid thing left in the world. He closes his eyes, counts back from ten. _My name is Aedan Cousland. I am a Grey Warden now. I survived_. A mantra, a prayer, a single thought on a loop in his head until all the bad things are gone. Duncan taught him that, the first night after their escape. It helps.

Aedan opens his eyes. “I’m okay,” he says in a small voice. It’s a lie. He is not okay, will _never_ be okay. But he won’t die, either. Not yet. Not like this. Not until he personally puts Howe’s head on a pike and paints the walls of _his_ castle in the blood of his men. Until then, he can pretend. “I’m okay.”

Duncan nods, but the hand on Aedan’s shoulder lingers there even as they continue. The boy tries to pretend he doesn’t need it. _You are strong enough to stand on your own_ , he tries to convince himself, but the way his hands shake, and knees wobble betray it as a lie.

But if he tells himself that often enough, he might eventually believe it.

\----------------------

“O Creator, see me kneel: For I walk only where You would bid me. Stand only in places You have blessed. Sing only the words You place in my throat.”

The dungeon is dark, cold and full of rats. Leonora Amell kneels on the floor, feet bare against the cold floor. The light of the torch near the entrance is barely enough for her to see her fingers, but even this light is wasted, as the mage holds her eyes tightly shut.

“My Maker, know my heart: Take from me a life of sorrow. Lift me from a world of pain. Judge me worthy of Your endless pride.”

Her throat is hoarse and dry, so the words come out rasped and croaky. Yet she continues, the prayer spilling from her lips on repeat. It’s a dull monotone full of venom and spite for a god that refused to grant her the kindness of an execution.

“My Creator, judge me whole: Find me well within Your grace. Touch me with fire that I be cleansed. Tell me I have sung to Your approval.”

She is doing it specifically to irritate him, Cullen knows. He’s stood outside the door long enough to realize she only starts the chanting when she hears him enter. She knows it’s him because of course it is, no one else has bothered to visit the lone prisoner in this miserable place. Not after what she has done. Even Cullen should not be down here, but he is.

“You have to eat something,” he tries again the moment Leo interrupts her chanting to draw a breath. It’s a battle he has yet to win.

She doesn’t even open her eyes. “O Maker, hear my cry: Seat me by Your side in death. Make me one within Your glory. And let the world once more see Your favor.”

Ten days. Ten sunrises and sunsets unseen by those bright green eyes. Ten nights of Cullen standing faithfully by the door even as reason tells him to abandon this foolish quest. Ten plates of food snuck from the kitchens, left untouched by the proud prisoner.

“Leo, _please_.” Cullen’s voice breaks under the weight of his desperation as he tries to speak louder than the woman’s chanting. Then, after drawing a shaky breath to collect himself, he adds, barely above a whisper: “You will _die._ ”

He doesn’t know if it’s the words or the emotion behind them, but Leo’s eyes finally snap open. She is thin and shivering, her hair is a mess – but her eyes still burn with the blaze of her soul. She is a scorching pyre, and he a moth to the flame. Even as her eyes burn him with their rage, Cullen cannot help the blush that rises up his neck and tinges his ears pink.

“So what?” Leo spits the words out, venom in every word. She hates him, hates the Order whose symbol is emblazoned upon his chest, and the Chantry that created that Order. Maybe she even hates the Maker, whose prayers she so carelessly mocks just to drive him off. “I didn’t ask for your pity, Templar, nor do I need it. Leave me be.”

_Stubborn woman_ , Cullen thinks, but does not bulge from his spot. He can’t. She matters, more than he dare admit to anyone including himself. It’s a foolish notion, the romance between a Templar and a mage, but as preposterous as the idea is, it still fills his stomach with butterflies. He remembers her smile, the brightness of her eyes when she laughed, the warmth of her lips as they grazed his cheek that one time under the moonlight… It feels like a different life now, distant and unreachable, but to him it was _real_.

The door opens with a screech and the dungeon is flooded with light. The sound tears through the heavy silence and Cullen jumps. The plate in his hand slips from his grasp and shatters on the stone floor. “K-Knight-Commander!” Surprise makes him stutter, his voice higher-pitched than is normal. Gregoair’s gaze shifts between him and the prisoner, but no matter how hard Cullen tries to read it, he can gather nothing from the stone carving of a man.

“This is she?” The voice is unfamiliar, but it comes as a welcome distraction. Gregoair steps aside, allowing the group behind him to enter the dungeon. And what a strange group it is. One man – the one whose voice cut through the tense silence – is tall, dark-skinned and bearded, with all manners of belts attached to his foreign-looking leather armor. Two red daggers perch on his back, another at his hip, and somehow Cullen knows that this is not the full extent of the man’s arsenal. The other is tall and lean, but with a face that looks younger than even Cullen’s own. He wears armor befitting a noble, but the crest is scraped off, scratched to the point where nothing can be distinguished but the faint remains of leaf-green shapes. The young man has swords at his back. At their feet is a mabari hound, brown with streaks of white where the fur is painted with kaddis. Intelligence shines in the noble beasts’ dark eyes.

The First Enchanter stands behind them all, and nods in response to the bearded man’s question. “Indeed. This is she.”

Dread wells up in the pit of Cullen’s stomach, sending cold waves of shivers up his spine. Ten days of anxious waiting, of sleeping with one eye open, and finally the day he’s feared has come. Anyone found guilty of aiding a blood mage would face execution, but for a mage, the punishment may be even more severe. Tranquility is not a fate Cullen would wish on anyone, and the thought of those bright eyes dimmed to meek obedience is one he’s seen too many times in his nightmares. But the bearded man only smiles as he strides forward. And then he does the unthinkable.

\----------------------

_It's a joke. It must be_ , Leo thinks as she watches the stranger slide a small key into the lock of the prison door. The metal screeches, as if in protest, as he pulls it open. The bars between her and freedom are gone, yet still she does not rise. It’s a trick, surely. Some last jeer from the Templars? Her gaze shifts to Cullen, but the man’s face is pure shock and flushed ears – a different kind of embarrassment from they days he’s spent stuttering in her presence. He looks scared, even. A doe caught in a bright light. The Knight-Commander stands close to the door, his arms crossed over his chest, but not on the hilt of his sword. Can she make it past him before he can unsheathe his weapon? Templars are trained to deal with mages. She would have no chance in single combat, and—

A chuckle distracts her from her fervent thoughts. “You do not need to be afraid. If you come with me, I can take you away from here.” The man that speaks has dark skin and warm eyes. The way his voice lulls indicates traces of some foreign accent, but Leo can’t tell which country it belongs to. Foreign, but friendly. Friend, not foe. Leo doesn’t know what to think.

He kneels in front of her, this large bearded man bringing himself to eye level with… well, her. Leo isn’t stupid. She knows that she must look like a miserable wreck, and truth be told, she feels like one too. Fingernails bitten to the base, knuckles covered in dried blood and raw, hair messed up from the uncountable amount of times she’s run her hands through it. The aftermath of her best friend’s escape had sent Leo into a fit of despair she had not thought herself capable of – and she had _helped_ him! A _blood mage_ , of all things! Jowan, the meek, confused boy with greasy black hair and shifty eyes, who couldn’t even light a candle without burning himself… an abomination? The thought could not compute – it _still_ can’t.

And yet she would do it again. Foolishly, pathetically, she would throw caution and her own life to the wind for the chance to see him again, to know that he is okay.

When she doesn’t move, the tall, dark-haired young man behind Duncan shuffles forward wearing the kind of expression Leo had always imagined snooty nobles from the books to have when something displeased them.

“This is bullshit. We need to go,” he grits out between clenched teeth before leaning down and yanking Leo up by the collar of her tattered enchanter robe. Unexpecting the sudden force, the mage lets out a squeak, her tired body too slow to react. Not that she thinks she can stand a chance against him in a physical bout – up close she can see the toned physique underneath the leather of his armor, and the way he effortlessly hauls her up like she weighs nothing at all speaks for itself. But his eyes are the most startling – clear crystals of blue, filled with such ice that she cannot help the chill that runs down her spine. There is something dark there, something that makes her fear for her life, paralyzing her body more than the surprise.

All of it lasts no more than a moment, and then she is on her feet. It’s been days since she’s used her legs, since she’s had any kind of exercise or even gotten up at all; she is dizzy and nauseous and when the ice-eyed man lets go, she clings to his arm not because she cares for him, but because letting go would likely end up in her face greeting the ground. The hiss that escapes his mouth as he all but bolts out of her grasp is somewhere between surprised and venomous, but his eyes are filled with pure terror.

Duncan is at her side now, supporting her, while his companion retreats as far back as he can within the small space. Slowly, but surely, Leo regains the ability to move her legs and moves, with Duncan’s help, towards the door. Everything feels like a dream, and a part of her brain is still certain that any minute now, Gregoair will shut the door in her face and she will be cast back into the darkness, left to rot in her cell.

It doesn’t happen. Unsteady steps take her past the ancient oak frame and into the dimly lit corridors of the place that was once home. It is that no longer, she realizes as she catches the ever-present eyes of the Templars. She is a stranger now. An outcast.

Somehow, she doesn’t mind too much.

“If the Wardens have use of me, I will go with you,” Leo tells Duncan some minutes later, as they wait to be escorted out of the Tower. She wears new, clean robes and her hair has been brushed and re-braided to a manageable degree. Her fingers open and close around a new staff - polished oakwood, curved and charred at the end. ‘A final gift from her former mentor as she begins her new life’, First Enchanter Irving had told her when handing it over, and his face betrayed both happiness and great sorrow.

Irving and Gregoair enter the hall, followed by a small group of Templars. Among them, Leo spies the curly locks of Cullen, but even as he heart reaches out, she looks away. There is nothing for her here. Nothing and no one. _It’s better this way_ , she tells herself. _It will hurt less_.

The wind howls as the massive door opens. The mage steps out for the first time in years. She takes a deep breath – everything smells like freedom – and laughs. Loud, exuberant, to the point where she can’t breathe, but the sound rolls off into the great expanse of the outdoors, producing no echo. In the Tower, everything had an echo. The change is amazing.

Leo casts one last look back at Kinloch Hold, the structure pure ebony against the night sky. She smiles. _This_ , she thinks, _is the beginning of something wondorous_.

\----------------------

From the window of his room on the fourth floor, Daylen Surana can see the dark waters of the lake below. Sleep is not a blessing he often receives, and so he’s spent many nights on the windowsill, a book abandoned on his bed, pale eyes staring out into the darkness. The gentle sway of waves is soothing to a troubled soul, as undisturbed by the fickle turns of life as they are. On nights when he feels doubt begin to steadily creep its tendrils into his mind, the senior enchanter likes to look out to the lake and marvel at the calmness of its waters.

Tonight, however, the waters are disturbed, and Daylen cannot help but stick his head out a little farther than normal, pale eyes peering out into the night to make out the source of the disturbance. Everything is so tiny from this distance, like an ant. Daylen has never actually seen an ant, but he’s read all about them in books.

At the center of the ripples is a boat, which in and of itself would not be surprising if today was a day scheduled for supply delivery. Daylen has memorized every chart, every schedule, he knows the days and times any piece of cargo is scheduled to arrive as clearly as he knows his own name. Better, maybe. Today is not a delivery day, and the hour is too late for such things even if it was. A visitor? It would be strange for one to arrive so late in the night, but it is not unheard of. Child mages and escaped apprentices have no scheduled drop-off time, and it would not be the first time a weary Templar brought someone back this late.

Just as Daylen manages to soothe his nerves – he is always so tense when things occur out of their routine – he notices something out of the corner of his eye. A glimmer in the night, at the center of the dark mass moving across the waters. It flickers and fades, dancing and casting reflections, like a flame that is somehow too dull to be a real fire. A gust of wind blows over the lake and something must happen beneath, for the fabric obscuring the glimmer suddenly vanishes, revealing the source.

Daylen knows that figure. Even at this distance, the way her hair lights and dims, the flame flowing through it with every breath it seems, casts enough light for the elf to make out the outline of a woman in robes, and four silhouettes huddled next to her on the tiny boat. One is a canine, one is undoubtedly the oarsman, and that leaves two strangers unaccounted for. But Daylen knows only one person whose magic is so out of her control that it sets ablaze in tune with her emotions.

The memory of long auburn hair and green eyes set ablaze by wrath burn almost as much as the scar she left on his face. Even now, days later and after healing magic has been applied again and again by the best of the Tower’s healers, the strip of burned skin stretches from the bridge of his nose over his cheek and down his neck, ruining the delicately drawn markings on his face – the only reminder of a home he can no longer recall. _He got lucky_ , they said. _She could have killed you_. The insult added to injury is worse even than the fear he felt when she threw that fireball at him.

A part of him is glad to see her go. Once across the water, she will be out of their lives forever, or maybe they will get lucky and she will drown halfway there. Another part of him is scared for the world upon which a prime target for demons has been unleashed. And all of him is confused as to why such a thing has been allowed to pass. Yet it is not his place to question, and so he digs his fingers into his robes until his knuckles are white as bone and bites his tongue.

_It’s not my place_ , he repeats in his head like a mantra. _But someday, it will be_.


	2. Chapter II. The One With the Wrong Words Said

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aedan refuses to play nice. Leo doesn't know how to hold her tongue. 
> 
> Two stubborn people in a tense situation - a recipe for disaster.

The forest is alive. It’s the first thing Leo notices as they draw closer to the ruins of Ostagar. South of the tiny town of Lothering, farms and settlements give way to vast wildlands known as Korcari Wilds. Leo has read about them, seen the delicate ink illustrations in books. But seeing it with her own two eyes? It’s better than she’s ever imagined. Vast trees obscure the horizon with red and yellow leaves, making everything look like a beautiful campfire. Branches weave together in a net overhead. Underneath these complex pathways, all manner of wild flowers sprouts all over the landscape, their bright colors welcoming the young mage to pick them. Roots are seemingly woven into the earth itself, making the ground uneven and foreign, so very unlike the smooth stone floors of the Tower. Fallen leaves blanket the ground and crackle underfoot, and the wind sings in the leaves not yet fallen, nature’s beautiful melody. Lost in wonder, Leonora forgets about the chilly breeze rattling her very bones, and the fact that her shoes are soaked through to the point where she can no longer feel her feet.

This is freedom, glorious and wild. Suddenly, she understands all too well why Anders risked his very life and the possibility of being made Tranquil to experience this, however briefly. If this does end up being a cruel joke after all, she thinks, it would have been worth it. The smell of burning wood that permeates the Tower has been replaced with a wild cacophony of pine, fresh breeze and grass.

The closer they get to their destination, the quieter the forest gets. Where once the air was heavy with birdsongs and the pit-pat of many tiny paws on trees and ground, now hangs a silence heavier than what Leo is used to. In the Circle, the silence was a friend that held her hand as she crept down dark hallways in the night. A Templar’s step could be heard for half the floor, and thus easily avoided with the right amount of ingenuity. Out here, in the wild? Leo doesn’t know what it means, but it can’t be good.

“The darkspawn have made it this far into the Wilds?” Aedan calls. His question is not directed at her, nor does she expect it to be. Since their initial meeting, the man has made it his mission to pretend that Leo does not exist. Even now, he keeps his horse stubbornly a few paces ahead of her, giving her no choice but to stay dead last.

“I’m afraid so. Last I heard, stragglers were spotted throughout the forest, but the bulk of the horde is not expected to arrive until a couple of days from now,” Duncan answers.

Aedan makes a noise of acknowledgement. His lips are pressed into a thin line and his knuckles are white from the tightness of his hold on the reigns, but Leo can’t help admiring how natural he is in the saddle. While she slips and sways uncomfortably with every shift of the horse, Aedan maintains his back in a straight line, even as they climb rocky terrain. The man’s trusty war hound trots loyally beside the horse. Every so often, the mabari dashes off after a hare or squirrel, but it always returns to its master’s side. Always.

The hound has not run off in a while.

“Did your parents teach you to ride?” Leo blurts out, surprising both herself and the young man she is addressing. She needs to fill the silence, somehow.

There is a long pause, and for a while Leo thinks that the man is simply ignoring her. It wouldn’t be the first time. Since Kinloch Hold’s shadow stopped looming menacingly over her shoulder, Leo has been pestering Aedan endlessly with questions ranging from his favorite color to what his dog’s name is. He answered only the last one – “Pup” – and the rest were met with icy silence. It’s honestly getting to be quite annoying. What does he think he is, King of Ferelden?

Absorbed as she is in her internal pouting, the mage almost misses the minute motion as Aedan turns his head just enough to watch her out the corner of his eye.  
“Yes.” His voice is quiet, even and cool. It allows no questions, offers no explanations.  
Short as the answer is, Leo takes it and runs with it. This is the most information about his origins that he’s provided since the beginning of this too-many-day horseback ride, and Fade be damned, she is curious. She needs to know!

The questions come off her tongue so fast she almost forgets to breathe in-between words. “Really? What’s your mother like? Do you have siblings?”

\----------------------

Aedan regrets saying anything at all. He’d thought that giving the mage some small semblance of an answer would satisfy her into silence for the duration of their journey, but he was wrong. So very, very wrong. Instead, Amell takes the single word he utters as an invitation to bother him further – an invitation he most certainly did not extend. Only Duncan’s even gaze keeps him from drawing his swords and bringing an end to this misery.

“All Wardens are needed, Aedan,” the Warden-Commander’s words from the night before echo in the Cousland’s mind as surely as if the older man has spoken them again. “You promised to put the Order before your vengeance, remember?” A swift nod is the only answer Duncan’s eyes receive, but it’s enough to reassure the older Warden that no fighting will break out… for now. Aedan remembers his promise. The weight of his word keeps him from striking out even as the girl behind him chatters on and on.

The ruins of Ostagar must have been beautiful once, for even as a moss-ridden skeleton, its buildings carry remnants of former glory. Aedan’s read about the battles that took place here ages ago, when Tevinter built the fortress to stand against Chasind barbarians. He should be impressed. Yet as the overgrown white stone columns and arches become more and more numerous, all the young noble feels is the steadily growing dread pooling in his stomach. Somewhere behind these trees and arches is his brother, Fergus, waiting for good news. Wondering where Father is, no doubt. Aedan doesn’t know what to tell him – how to tell him. He isn’t even sure his own mind comprehends the entirety of what’s happened back home. The horror of it all – the burning castle, the bloody walls, the screams – has not yet set in.  
He grasps the reins tighter in his pale hands. Fergus. What will he say, what will he think? Aedan is almost certain that his brother will think him a failure for what happened. It was his duty to keep the peace. His fingernails dig into the skin of his palms, but Aedan doesn’t notice. He is dizzy. A fire crackles somewhere, the faint smell of burning wood permeating the air as they draw closer to the army’s camp. Aedan’s head is full of ghostly screaming, and even as his conscious mind tells him it’s just a memory, his head shoots up to search the surroundings. The memory plays in his head on an endless loop. Maker, Elisse! She’s somewhere out there, I must save her at least--

“Did you know that the Tower of Ishal was named after Archon Ishal?” Aedan blinks and turns, staring at Amell with wide eyes. She stares back, grinning. Then she carries on, as if completely oblivious to the way Aedan’s hands tremble. “He ordered the Tower be built here back when the Tevinter Imperium was in power. What’s interesting, though, is the fact that the Tower seems to be dwarven-made. At least, that’s what the books say.”  
Aedan would laugh, if he wasn’t so busy trying to catch his breath. Amell’s voice does not fit with the phantasm of death that has wrapped its claws around his throat, and that dissonance between memory and reality forces him to remember where he is. My name is Aedan Cousland. I am a Grey Warden now. I survived. He repeats again and again. Eventually, he remembers to breathe again.  
When he does, he realizes that the three of them have come to a halt. Duncan has descended from his horse and passed the reigns to a soldier in light leather armor. Amell, meanwhile, sits awkwardly on her mount, both legs hanging off one side to accommodate her mage robes. She looks away as soon as their eyes meet. Aedan scoffs.

Following Duncan’s lead, Aedan effortlessly slides off his horse and hands the reigns to the soldier. Pup barks excitedly and runs a circle around his master, his tiny tail wagging all the while. The hound’s enthusiasm is contagious, Aedan has to admit as he leans down to pet Pup behind the ears. Even with fear and anxiety still clawing at his heart, the noble has to fight the smile that ever-so-slightly elevates the corners of his mouth.  
“Aww, look, so you can smile after all!” Amell’s tone is full of laughter. Somehow the dimples of her smile accentuate the freckles dotting her cheeks.

Aedan’s smile drops immediately, but the damage has been done. “Don’t you have some… mage business to attend to instead of bothering me?” Is his weak attempt at a comeback.

“Oh, you are insuff—Aaah!” Clearly, horseback riding was not as much a part of Amell’s childhood as it was Aedan’s. If her stiff and awkward posture throughout the trip was not enough indication, the way she trips trying to get off the horse certainly is. It happens too fast for Aedan to react – one moment he is sneering up at the girl and her irritating smile, and the next, the back of his head hits the ground and the air is knocked out of his lungs.

When he opens his eyes, Aedan’s vision is filled with red. For a moment, he panics, his mind flickering back to the fire that consumed his familial home, the blood that stained the stone. A scream is trapped in his throat and he reaches a hand out to feel for a blade, something to defend himself, anything— but then Amell moves, and the red moves with her. Her hair, bright as the leaves in autumn, fans over her shoulders as she sits up. Aedan is splayed on his back, with the smaller mage on top of him. She rubs the red spot where her forehead must have collided with his chest plate.

Her hair is warm like coal after a campfire and smells faintly of smoke. It makes Aedan sick to the stomach. He growls low in his throat, and shoves the girl off, perhaps a bit rougher than necessary.

“Ow!” Amell cries out as she falls in an ungraceful heap on the ground. Her forehead is forgotten in favor of rubbing her back. Aedan turns away, content to ignore her once more, until a small hand smacks his back. “What’s your problem!?”

“I’m certain I don’t know what you mean.” Aedan’s tone is curt and crisp and perfectly expressive of his current state of mind. The tiny mage glares up at him with her fists clenched tightly at her sides, fire in her eyes and flickering along her hair. Aedan tries to not show how the latter unnerves him.

“Can’t you be nice just once? What have I done to slight you so badly?”

“Nothing but harass me with pointless questions.” Aedan crosses his arms over his chest. Her voice is giving him a headache. “Do you think that just because we traveled together, we are now friends? Forget this foolish notion. You are nothing but a distraction, and I do not appreciate your meddling. Go find someone who cares.”

“If all of you nobles are like that, I’m glad there is a few less of you now!”

Silence falls. The tension in the air is suffocating. For what feels like eternity, they simply stare at each other, and the world around them comes to a halt. The words cut through Aedan like a knife, knocking the air out of his lungs as surely as the earlier fall. How did she—No. How dare she!? The usual sensation of water in his lungs is replaced by boiling rage. His clenched fist trembles, but not with fear this time.  
“Wait, that’s not what I—”

Aedan doesn’t realize he’s moved until a loud smack resonates in the heavy silence. The back of his hand stings and Amell’s eyes are wide. She gives a startled cry and holds her cheek.

“What do you know of my family, mage!?” Aedan challenges. At full height, he towers a head over the girl, and for the first time since their first meeting, she shrinks under his glare. “Better to have had one and lost it than be born an unwanted abomination!”

He turns and stomps off, pushing past a blond man in shiny gold armor without realizing he is even there. If Duncan calls after him, Aedan does not notice.


End file.
